


Even a Stopped Clock...

by trillian_jdc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confident Mycroft, Flirting, M/M, Mystrade Monday, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/pseuds/trillian_jdc
Summary: Mycroft has returned from a business trip early. Three years early. There was a time travel mistake, and he has caught up with Greg before they're together. Mycroft misses his partner, while from Greg's point of view, they've never even dated. That's not going to stop Mycroft from flirting with him as much as he can, though.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft realizes he's in the wrong time after both he and Greg have their expectations contradicted.

It was another late-night crime scene, another case too pedestrian for it to even be considered a mystery. Just another couple who'd been together too long and finally snapped, letting out all the built-up tension in words and then punches and then an object to a skull. Greg Lestrade often thought about how differently he'd hoped his life would turn out, but it was murders like this one that reminded him there were worse things than being divorced and alone. 

He'd directed his team long enough tonight. They had their tasks, the survivor had been taken in, collapsed in regret and fear, and whatever was left could wait until tomorrow. Before he left the scene, he propped himself on the edge of the building and lit up a cigarette. He'd been trying to quit, but nicotine was by far the least worrisome of the various substances he'd considered consuming to try and relax himself enough to get home and get some sleep. 

As he stared into the cloudy night sky, watching for a glimpse of stars somewhere to break through, he suddenly felt arms encircle his waist. Warm breath whispered into his ear, "I'm so glad to be back, Gregory," as a long, slim body pressed up against his back and, god, his arse. Soft lips and an agile tongue nibbled his neck. "I've missed you. Are you finished and able to come home with me?" 

Greg froze, then whirled, throwing himself backwards to break the hold. He thought he'd recognized that voice, but damn, what was Mycroft Holmes, of all people, doing snuggling up to him? "What the hell?!? Let go of me!" 

A shocked Mycroft took a step back, although his hands came to rest lightly on Greg's hips. "What's wrong, darling? I know it's been a few days, but my trip didn't last long enough for you to forget me." 

"Why would I know where you've been, or for how long? Last time I heard from you, it was an email last month _politely_ reminding me just how much Sherlock is allowed to get away with." The sarcasm indicated the demand for special treatment still rankled. 

"Oh, bugger." Mycroft backed up a few steps, and his body language abruptly changed, from soft and comfortable to polite reserve, stiff spine and all. He looked down at his wrist, at what appeared to be a complicated, chunky timepiece. His eyes widened. "Oops." 

He looked at Greg and began apologizing. "So sorry, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm under an unfortunate influence. Please put this out of your mind. I must go." 

The weirdly uncharacteristic behavior from what, until now, had been a pain in his arse he was barely acquainted with was shaping up to be a more interesting mystery than anything Greg had seen in weeks. And, to be fair, the hug had felt pretty good. Greg grabbed Mycroft's arm. "No, wait, what's going on? You don't seem chemically affected."

Mycroft grinned slyly, just for a moment, and murmured, "Does dopamine count?" before once again drawing himself back into his professional facade. "As you've indicated, it has nothing to do with you. It's late. You've been working too hard, as have I. There's nothing here to draw your attention." Mycroft's voice dropped into a low, relaxing register. He was repeating himself in a sing-song tone. "It's late. You're tired. Nothing important happened." 

"Are you trying to _hypnotize_ me? Cut it out." Greg took a more solid stance, planting his feet and crossing his arms. "I know, for god's sake, I can't make you tell me anything, but you're not going to make me forget about this." 

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Oh, Inspector. You can make me do many things. If you insist on spending more time together, we'd better go to yours. No one would expect me to be there." 

Greg stubbed out his cigarette, buying himself a moment to contemplate Mycroft Holmes going home with him. Certainly not the way he'd expected this evening to end, but he allowed the imposition, as his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and anyone who invited themselves along to his flat deserved whatever state he'd left it in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk. Greg is clever, while Mycroft is a tad distracted.

Mycroft swept Greg along to his car, to the flat, and up the stairs to the door. Greg's fatigue was helping him pay little attention to how it all happened; he was saving his energy for pushing for an actual explanation, once they settled. 

Surprisingly, Mycroft was also doing a wonderful job of taking charge of him. He was guided in all the right directions, not having to make any decisions or even provide his address. Of course Sherlock's all-powerful brother would know where he lived, but Mycroft took it further, dipping his hand into Greg's pocket to retrieve his keys before an exhausted Greg even registered the touch. 

Mycroft took his jacket, placed him on the sofa, and kept going into his kitchen, where he seemed familiar with the layout, pulling out the basic tea things and starting the kettle. Greg then watched, wide-eyed, as Mycroft began stripping off his outer layers: overcoat, suit jacket, cufflinks, tie pin, tie. When he reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, Greg cleared his throat, unsure just how far this was going to go. Mycroft froze, glancing quickly at Greg and away again before seeming to come back to himself and turning to prepare the tea. 

"Now I know there's something wrong. I don't believe you'd ever forget anything, and it seems you did, just now. You didn't remember I was here." 

"Oh, no, Gre... Lestrade. I know exactly where I am, and who with. That's the problem." 

"How am I your problem?" Greg demanded.

"I can't tell you. It's too big a risk."

"That's it." Greg stormed into the kitchen and straight into Mycroft's space. "If you can't trust me after all I've done for your brother, at some cost, I might add, although that's not important, after all this time, then ... fucking hell. Never mind. I can't make you listen to me. Just sod off." 

Greg was nearly nose-to-nose with Mycroft, breathing heavily, his ire up and his fists clenched. Mycroft looked back, his own breathing quickened, although Greg wasn't sure it was from anger. Mycroft's eyes flashed, and his lips twitched. His fingers curled up into his hands, as though he was keeping himself from reaching for something. 

Then Mycroft said something completely unexpected. "Lord, you're magnificent when you're righteously angry." He smiled, devilishly, at Greg. 

Greg stepped back. "What is _wrong_ with you?" He didn't know Mycroft knew how to flirt, never mind how inappropriate the timing was, and yet that was all he'd done that evening. "Are you ever going to fill me in or can I sleep now?" 

"Are those my only two choices?" Mycroft schooled his features back into neutrality and answered more seriously. "Gregory, I will give you whatever you ask. Sit down, and I will answer you, regardless of the consequences. You're going to need the tea, though. And you might want to change into something more comfortable first. Do you still have those wonderfully soft plaid bottoms?" 

Greg gave up on following any of this. "Whatever you say, Mycroft. Probably. I'll go look." He trundled away into the bedroom, changed, and when he returned, there was a most comforting sight, a perfectly colored mug of tea, being handed to him. 

The two men settled back on the sofa. Greg focused on slowly drinking his tea and clearing his mind to focus. He needed to be prepared for whatever information he was given, because based on the evening so far, he was going to be surprised by whatever he was told. He'd already been shocked by the implication that he was dating a man. It had been a long time since he'd thought about those impulses. 

He looked closely at Mycroft. He had a few more lines around his eyes and mouth than the last time he saw the man, but they were all getting older these days. These, though, weren't the expected stress markers. They were laugh lines. And Mycroft wasn't giving off as intimidating an air as usual. Perhaps it was the lack of an umbrella to gesture with, Greg thought, unwilling to contemplate too closely what else might have broken through that icy facade. 

Right now, he looked the portrait of the proper gentleman, sitting comfortably, long legs crossed at the knee, shirt cuffs turned up once, fingers interlaced and hands on his thigh. "This began because I was eager to return to..." He paused, then changed what he had been about to say. "England. There was a special engagement I desperately wanted to be present for. I borrowed some advanced technology. Clearly, there was a miscalculation."

"That watch you're wearing. That it?" Greg wanted to show he was managing to follow, despite the late hour and his need for sleep. 

"Very observant of you." 

"If I didn't know better," Greg began slowly, knowing he shouldn't say what he was about to consider, "I'd suspect time travel. But that's impossible, isn't it?" He pinned Mycroft in his gaze while taking a sip from the mug in his hand, curious to see his response. 

"Ah, darling, so clever you are." After realizing what he'd said, Mycroft's eyes widened, and he cleared his throat. "Apologies. Habits form quickly and are so hard to break." 

"You're from the future. Is that it?" Greg was tired of wordplay and wanted to cut to the meat of the problem. 

"Yes," Mycroft said quietly. "And you've likely already ascertained that we are more than ... work colleagues at that point." 

"I twigged that you wanted to be, anyway. We'll come back to that," Greg asserted. "How far future, how do you return, and what are the dangers of you being here?" 

"Three years. The rest, I'm not sure yet. That's why we're here -- three years ago, from my local frame of reference, I'd never been here, so there's no chance of timeline cross-contamination." 

"But you spent time here. You know it." 

Greg was surprised to see Mycroft pink a little. "I have quite fond memories of this sofa, actually." Mycroft softly stroked one of the cushions as a small smile played across his lips. 

"Why do you keep saying things like that?" Greg growled. "You're not helping me focus on the problem." 

"I'm sure. I'm having quite the difficulty myself. Normally, when I return from a business trip, I have quite a different greeting. I suppose I'm now conditioned to respond a certain way to your presence at such times." Mycroft reclasped his hands and shifted a little as he sat, subtly adjusting himself. 

Greg continued to sip at his tea, buying him time to figure out how to manage the effect he was clearly having on Mycroft. "Thought you Holmes boys were all about mind over body." This situation was so ridiculous that he couldn't resist teasing Mycroft a bit. It was rare enough he had the upper hand, between the two of them. 

"Oh, Gregory, don't poke the bear. It's been days since I've had my hands on you, and we rarely go so long. My self-control isn't what it used to be. You've trained me well." Mycroft's eyes were drifting down Greg's body, and the tip of his tongue began slowly tracing his lips. 

Greg was so tired the caffeine wasn't having an effect, but hearing how often he and Mycroft apparently had sex, and that he had taken the lead, woke Greg right up again. The all-powerful Holmes granting him whatever he wanted was a heady thought. Time for a change of subject. "Have you tried that gizmo again?" He waved at the timepiece. 

"It would be a risk. There are necessary calculations for location, given the movement of the relative frames, including planetary position." 

"No point in asking Sherlock for help, then." Greg snickered. 

"Lord, I can only imagine the devastation if my brother had all of time available to him! He raises enough chaos in one era." Mycroft joined in Greg's laughter, and his hand began gently stroking Greg's knee. 

"It's much too late for this. Let's make plans tomorrow. I'll get you some things, and you and your sofa friend can get reacquainted." Greg hopped up. He told himself he wasn't running away, just staging a strategic retreat from a surprisingly sexy Mycroft Holmes. 

"It wasn't the sofa I wanted to get reacquainted with, Gregory," Mycroft purred in a low register as he looked up at Greg, a clear invitation in his eyes. 

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You haven't even taken me out for dinner yet." Greg backed away. "You seem to know where everything is, make yourself at home, see you in the morning." He let out a deep breath as he closed the bedroom door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's Mystrade Monday prompt was "This isn't what I wanted." There's a small nod near the end of this chapter to that phrase.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has some thinking to do. Too bad he's so exhausted.

Alone in his bed, Greg had some thinking to do. He hadn't been out with a man since the 80s, and what they did then, clubbing and playing around and taking little seriously, couldn't really be called dating. These days, he was a proper adult, with responsibilities, which had been difficult to balance against his desire for a lasting relationship. He wasn't getting any younger, and it had become more difficult to find people he truly clicked with. He'd only been dating women since the divorce, but none of them seemed to understand the needs of his career or his... was it friendship? with Sherlock Holmes and the unique requirements that demanded. 

Mycroft was obviously offering something, but there were so many questions attached. How did the future them get together? How long had they been involved, and how closely? Well, Greg likely knew some of that last bit, given how different Mycroft Holmes had been towards him this evening. Mycroft, flirting with him, that was a turn up. Greg couldn't say he minded. The man was thoughtful, obviously caring, charming when he bothered, smart, well-spoken, graceful, occasionally indulged a drily wicked sense of humor, and yeah, attractive. Long legs, tall and trim, a beautiful smile when he actually showed emotion, piercing eyes, and those long fingers... 

If Mycroft was concerned about affecting the future, with his implication they were hiding out at Greg's, why was he coming on to him, anyway? Greg didn't buy the lack of control argument. And there was no way he could be considered that irresistible. 

Greg's exhausted thoughts began scrambling around various implications, all inhibitions gone with the late hour. If he'd taken him up on some of his insinuations, would one of them be cheating, somehow? Were they bound to get together, or was the future at risk? Greg didn't want to be responsible for ruining things for this happy Mycroft, who seemed quite eager to get back to his... what? Boyfriend? Partner? Greg's mind stuttered at continuing that train of thought, and switched tracks. If he called Mycroft now, the one he had contact information for on his phone, how would their conversation go, knowing what he'd learned? Would he read it on him? Greg knew he could never again talk to Mycroft without this awareness in the background. 

But how did time travel work, anyway? Were there two Mycrofts in existence right now, and were both interested in him? That would be quite the threesome. He'd couldn't quite imagine how to keep the attention of one Holmes, with all that focus and observation of details, let alone two. 

His subconscious whirring away on ramifications and implications, Greg finally let the exhaustion overcome him and drifted to sleep.


End file.
